Chosen (9 page)

Mariah accepted and welcomed the powerful connection between her and Frannie, the same bond she felt with Michael and now Peter. As she contemplated the ice melting in her glass, she tried to recapture that elation; however, the direction of their conversation prior to this filled her with dread.

“Getting back to what we were talking about before: I don’t like it. You know what’ll happen if we film the next
Finding
. Somehow, a rag like the
Investigator
will get their hands on it, and they’ll have everyone believing I’m an alien, or that I can levitate, maybe heal the sick with X-ray vision. They’ll print whatever garbage they think will sell. The truth is strange enough without adding sensationalism.” Her voice rose with her agitation. “I’ve seen what the media can do to a person’s life: there should be laws against stalking people with a camera, even though it’s done in the guise of freedom of the press.”

She anticipated the comeback so added, “I know, I know. Highly visible people have to expect a certain amount of publicity, but there’s a limit to what anyone should have to endure.

“Furthermore,” she continued, her voice rising in anger, “movie stars and politicians know what’s going to happen
before
they decide to become public figures.
I
had no choice.
I
didn’t ask for this, and
I
shouldn’t have to play by the same rules! I’m going to be under a million watt microscope. Just thinking about it gives me the hives.”

Before Frannie could open her mouth, Mariah said, “Who wants millions of people copying my hairstyle or eating my favorite cereal or discussing how much weight I should lose? Better yet, someone will dig up an old boyfriend and, for a hefty fee, he’ll satisfy their voyeurism by lying about some porno act we committed!”

Mariah’s jaw tightened. “The thought that my family and friends will be harassed with microphones jammed in their faces...” She shuddered in revulsion.

Frannie stared at Mariah, knowing that what she needed to say next would require the right conciliatory tone. “Believe me, I’m sympathetic, Mariah. I understand your position, but we can’t keep a lid on this anymore. My boss has been able to keep you a secret with the threat that you’ll stop the
Findings
, but how long can he do that?” Frannie paused to let this sink in. She felt a twinge of guilt because she now had to tweak Mariah’s conscience.

“And we’ve overlooked the biggest benefit of going public. We know that other kidnappers won’t stop because they think you’ll catch them; their sickness compels them beyond the threat of jail. However, the more times they see you do these
Findings
, the better chance we might have of at least some of them turning themselves in and getting help. And let’s not forget that you’re at least getting the ones you catch off the street.”

Smiling warmly at Mariah, Frannie closed with a final pronouncement. “There will be millions and millions of people who’ll see your talent, or gift, in an exceptionally positive light. People are more willing to accept anomalies—miracles, if you wish—then you give them credit for.” Frannie sat back, waiting for the anticipated reaction.

Mariah’s face was a study in dawning acceptance. Having been so self-absorbed, she hadn’t thought about the children. Impossible to save them all; nevertheless, Frannie had a point. Being so focused on her fear of publicity, she had failed to see the obvious benefits to others. And maybe Frannie was right about lots of people accepting and welcoming her gift.

Purposely changing the subject, Mariah told Frannie about her dreams on Planet X. After what they’d been through, the dreams would not sound quite so demented.

Frannie grinned and shook her head. “If anyone but you told me about these dreams, accompanied by all the special effects, I’d have their blood tested for hallucinogens. Or I’d tell them to stay away from jalapenos before going to bed.”

“There’s something else I want to talk to you about.” The look in Mariah’s eyes, and the tone of her voice, immediately caused Frannie’s heart beat to accelerate.

“I’ve had two exceptionally frightening dreams that don’t fit in the Planet X category. In the first one, there are three bands of hideous colors. In each band I see distorted objects that pulse and gyrate which makes me queasy. If that isn’t bad enough, a shadow forms in front of the nauseous color show. Even though it’s deformed, I’m sure it’s human.” Mariah’s eyes were haunted with remembrance.

“But it gets worse. The shadow begins to hum
Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on my Head
. I feel even more terrified because it’s so out of sync with what’s going on.” She cleared her throat as if trying to dislodge the fear.

“I had the second dream two days ago. In this one, I’m freezing and even more frightened than the first time. If that’s possible. It’s pitch dark at first: I can’t see anything, not even my hands. The floor starts to shake and lights start flying by my face. Then a really strong wind begins to blow and I know that, in a second, it’s going to knock me off my feet.

“I can hear myself screaming, the wind is howling, the floor is shaking so bad I can hardly stand up. And above all the noise, I hear it. The humming. Same song.” Mariah rubbed her forehead as if she could erase the vision. “Loud enough so I can hear it over the wind.

“Do you know what ‘dissociative identity disorder’ is? I looked it up: it used to be called ‘multiple personality disorder’. That’s what this makes me think of. Maybe the shadow person is doing something evil and insane, like, I don’t know—carving someone up. But then it’s humming this cute little song. Like its two people inside one body. And the one singing the song doesn’t know what the other personality is doing.” She shivered. “I woke up but I felt sick.”

Frannie felt Mariah’s fear and became alarmed. “Do you think this has anything to do with a
Finding
? Like, maybe something in the future? At this point, we can’t consider anything a coincidence. If the alien planet dreams have something to do with you finding the kids, then these two nightmares have to be connected somehow.”

Mariah looked nervous. “I agree. But for some reason, I don’t think the horrible dreams have anything to do with finding abducted children. I sure hope not, because whatever they signify, it’s going to be terrible.”

Ah, that heavenly bouquet. No matter where she went, Mariah would always love the smell of an Atlantic Ocean beach with its brackish salt water, slimy fingers of seaweed washed ashore during high tide, discarded shells from horseshoe crabs, and various other marine inhabitants, dead and rotting on slippery rocks and stony sand.

She opened her eyes eagerly ... and gasped. Instead of the anticipated rocky New England coast with the vast gray ocean stretching to meet the sky, she saw a field of wheat.

Pink wheat, to be exact. Growing in about a foot of salt water.

Pink wheat. In salt water.

Bright, fluorescent, glow-in-the-dark pink wheat, growing in seaweed-smelling, dead-crab stinking, I-can’t-take-much-more-of-this salt water.

And what in the name of holy hell was with those mountains in the distance? Their peaks, which should have been covered with snow, were instead crowned with fire engine red trees. At least they
looked
like trees; at this point, Mariah would not have been surprised if they turned out to be six-foot tall red wooly sheep.

Concentrate on what Stephen said
, she thought, her temples beginning to throb.
Enjoy this while it lasts. Stop trying to make sense of it.

Mariah straightened up and took a deep, calming breath. Turning left she spotted an outcropping of cobalt blue rocks that glistened in the sun, probably due to some type of imbedded metal. Not knowing how long this episode of
As The Dreamworld Turns
was going to last, she decided to make the most of it and explore.

The blue rocks were smooth to the touch, polished by wind and maybe something else. The vegetation growing around and between them looked like daisies with lavender leaves and pale green centers. The salt-water smell grew fainter as she moved further from the wheat field.

Several years ago, Mariah had stopped wearing a watch, developing an admirable sense of elapsed time, so she was able to calculate that she roamed around for about two hours DST (Dream Standard Time). She allowed herself the luxury of really enjoying the scenery for just what it was: yellow and orange hydrangeas grew out of coral colored rocks; tan bermudagrass under her bare toes felt springy. All things considered, she was not having an awful time.

Mariah carefully maneuvered around a black prickly bush as the wind suddenly shifted. In an instant, anxiety returned in a heady rush. She wrapped her arms around her nakedness, an unconscious gesture of self-protection. One of her worst fears had finally become a reality, something she’d been dreading—something that brought her initial fear back with a force like a tsunami.

With the shifting of the wind came the unmistakable aroma of freshly deposited feces. Mariah didn’t know if they had been made by man or beast, but whatever it was, it had been deposited quite recently.

She was most definitely not alone.

Mariah’s life had settled into a pattern since the
Visitation
. First was Amanda Forrester, found on June 10; then Joseph Armstrong, on July 15; Kevin O’Reilly followed on August 12. Three more
Findings
had occurred since then.

On September 21, Mariah found Timothy Saginotu in the basement of a factory in New York City. Chester “Bonehead” Clemmons (
all right, so it was “Bonham,” but it was close enough
) decided Mr. Nuru Saginotu, whom he chauffeured from his mansion in Hyde Park to his ritzy clothing store that catered to the very rich and famous in Manhattan, didn’t pay him nearly enough.

Instead of delivering the boy to school, Bonehead taped Timmy’s mouth shut, tied his hands behind his back, and stuffed him behind a stack of fabrics in a factory that, unknown to Clemmons, happened to be owned by Saginotu. When Chester realized he had forgotten to bring another piece of rope to bind Timothy’s feet, he unrolled a bolt of fabric and wrapped it around the little boy’s body.

But Timmy wasn’t frightened. His father, whose success in business was his gift of foresight in anticipating the needs of his unconventional clientele, thought it prudent to tell his eight-year-old son about the miraculous rescue of Kevin O’Reilly. Remarking on the evils of mankind, he coached Timmy on what to do if something like that ever happened to him.

When Mariah made contact, the boy not only didn’t need reassurances of his sanity, he was primed and ready to give her chapter and verse.

The whole process took under two hours from the time she saw Timothy’s face on TV to the FBI walking in and untying him. They were waiting for Clemmons when he arrived to check up on the boy.

On October 8, Mariah was at work when her heart began its familiar slam dance against the walls of her chest. With a shaky hand, she turned up the radio and caught the news broadcast.

It was from Lucas, Texas. Eleven-year-old Dianne Cormier had been abducted an hour ago from the schoolyard. Some of the kids had seen her talking to a stranger lounging against a green car.

Mariah panicked. How could she do a
Finding
without seeing Dianne’s face?

A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. Turning, she stared at the document she’d been scanning on the monitor—and watched it melt before her eyes, replaced by the face of a little girl. Mariah never questioned that it belonged to Dianne Cormier, or how the image could appear on her screen. Sometimes you just didn’t want to know the answer.

With Michael’s assistance, she reached Dianne and found her in a 1968 Cougar XR7 with a cretin named Kurt Hoffmeyer. She didn’t have to convince the little girl who she was; one of Dianne’s teachers had fortuitously talked about the newspaper article about the psychic who found children with her class. Following Mariah’s instructions, Dianne focused on signs and landmarks.

They were on highway 75 heading north into Oklahoma. Mariah had Dianne turn her head to the left so she could get a look at Hoffmeyer. The degenerate actually thought the little girl was enjoying herself because she had stopped bawling and seemed to be almost cheerful! Mariah imprinted his shaved, pointy head and pale, blue eyes, the four gold rings pierced into his right earlobe, and the crooked teeth he flashed when his lips parted in a leer.

Mariah broke the connection and called Frannie. It was an easy grab. When Kurt spotted the Oklahoma State Police blockade erected on a deserted stretch of the highway, he slammed on the brakes, leaving a two hundred forty-foot skid mark as the shiny green Cougar’s 390 engine coughed in protest at the abrupt deceleration. Dianne wrenched the door open and hit the pavement so quickly it looked like she was out of the car while it was still in motion. An FBI agent scooped her up. She wrapped her arms and legs around his body, hanging on for dear life until they were in his car on their way back to Texas.

On November 21, Thanksgiving Day, Mariah invited friends to her home for the traditional feast and football games. The
Finding
was just the whipped cream on the pecan pie.

Her guests included Michael and Abigail, whose children had invitations from their respective in-laws; Frannie, grateful she had someone to share the holiday with besides her family; Ben and Amy Van Horten, who refused to take a plane ride to her folks with their four week-old child; Peter Martin, recuperating from the flu, not strong enough to travel with Linda and the kids to her folks in Seattle; and, at the last minute, a surprised and pleased Harold Sapitnaski. Mariah had gently declined Harold’s previous dinner invitation, unable to think about a relationship at this point in her life.

Dinner was done, dishes were being washed, the armchair generals were coaching the football teams on the television ... and Mariah Carpenter, light-headed, her heart using her ribs as a punching bag, sat in the dining room staring at the wall. She never knew she called Michael’s name in that sonorous voice he had come to know so well, but there he was, lifting her gently to her feet and turning her so she could grasp his arms. Frannie, Peter, and Abigail were the only ones who were aware of what was happening. The others were stunned as the
Finding
unfolded.

Mariah stared at the interior wall of a dry well, her nose no more than eight inches from the chilled, slimy surface. It was late afternoon judging by the shadows cast from the waning sun. The light was feeble; in minutes, the child on his knees at the bottom of the twenty-five foot well would be in total darkness.

Those who witnessed the
Finding
for the first time would forever remember the day they experienced the true meaning of “giving thanks.”

Abigail and Amy sat side by side on the sofa, holding hands, tears streaming unchecked down their cheeks. Stunned, Ben and Harold just stared at Mariah and Michael.

The boy was nine-year-old Zaphiel Engel, a member of the Mennonite community. Lynton P. Maguire spotted the child with his family when they came to town for some necessities the day before Thanksgiving. The drunken redneck stalked them at a discreet distance, eyes narrowed in anticipation, delighted that Zaphiel kept lagging behind, staring in store windows, mesmerized by all that was strange and forbidden.

Lynton P. just knew those self-righteous, holier-than-thou Christers had lots of loot. Hell, they had to; they certainly didn’t spend it on fancy duds and racy cars!

His patience was finally rewarded. Zaphiel was alone on a short side street, his family having just turned the corner ahead of him as he gazed into a candy store. It was just dumb luck that no last minute holiday shoppers were in sight at the moment Lynton made the grab.

Maguire scoffed at the whole damned holiday nonsense. Thanksgiving Day was nothing more than “a bunch a losers makin’ a damn big fuss over a damn stupid bird, and a buncha over-paid pansy jocks in tight pants throwin’ a damn pigskin around.”
This
was what “Thanksgiving” really meant: they’d give him money for the safe return of their brat, and he’d be ever so thankful!

With his hand clamped over Zaphiel’s mouth, he ducked into the alley next to the candy store and wrestled the squirming boy back to his pick-up. He bopped the kid on the noggin with his fist, just hard enough to stun Zaphiel and make him stop struggling so he could throw him into his rig.

Maguire headed for his homestead, a decrepit shack five miles out of town. Once there, he hitched the bucket rope from the dried-out well under Zaphiel’s armpits and lowered him to the bottom.

Zaphiel spent the night in the well. Hungry and cold, he was nevertheless unshaken in his belief that God would answer his prayers. When he heard Mariah’s voice in his head, he responded joyfully to what he knew must be the voice of a saint sent by the Lord. He accepted this miracle and answered her questions, even about “the poor soul who said he would let me go as soon as father coughs up the bucks.”

Frannie called the FBI in Lancaster. They swarmed all over the little town of Grainger in less than thirty minutes, questioning the locals about the abductor as the grief-stricken family huddled together, having spent a sleepless night weeping and praying in the police station.

They found Maguire passed out in his shack with an empty bottle of mescal still clutched in his hand. Zaphiel was where Mariah said he would be, suffering from mild hypothermia, but alive. He was brought back to town—riding in a real police car—regaling his family about his conversation with the saint.

Although delighted with the developments, Mariah’s despondency deepened. No matter what Frannie said, she had no doubt that once the
Finding
was filmed, it would eventually wind up in the hands of the media. She pictured herself fending off an attack of menacing microphones while reporters shrieked questions at the top of their lungs. She saw the crazies who wanted their fifteen minutes of fame stalking her with guns. Another image formed; this one of religious leaders worldwide who would either damn her as the Antichrist or elevate her status to a messenger from God.

What’s worse, she brooded, is I can see the faces of the families I can’t help, begging me to find their children then hating me when I can’t.

And let us not forget how we’re going to tell the family
.

Mariah cringed as she reached for the big guns—M&M’s with almonds—picturing the scenario with her folks. Her mother would be in the kitchen doing the three C’s; cooking, cleaning, and complaining. When she called, Rachel would answer using the green wall phone, the one with the deformed coil cord.

The cord was not misshapen when the phone was new. However, continually stretching it beyond its specifications had taken the coil out of it. When not in use, it lay on the kitchen floor like an arthritic snake. When the phone rang Mariah knew her mother would grab the receiver and stretch the “snake” until it resembled a frozen rope, yanking it so taut the phone would almost come off the wall. Then she would shout for Saul to pick up the extension in the bedroom.

Upon hearing the news that their youngest daughter had received a blessed gift from God and could find missing children by using telepathy, her father would heave a sigh that would shame a martyr then shake his head and shrug as if to say: “So, what else is new?” Her mother would scold in exasperation, reminding Mariah about these tricks causing her obvious ostracism from society. Stephen, bless his Stanford University education in the incomprehensible sciences, would practically drool with excitement and demand the minutest details. Not for a second would he believe that it was a gift from God, more likely alien implantations. Judith would be worried (probably for Mariah’s sanity) as she tried to distance herself from the painful truth of her little sister’s abnormalities.

And her friends? They would mouth words of sympathy and support and try to understand as best they could, but would, nevertheless, be bewildered and afraid.

She sighed in resignation: Frannie was right. She knew that filming the next
Finding
was the end of her anonymity and life as she knew it. She was amazed that Frannie had been able to keep her identity secret from the FBI’s public information officer this long. Once the PR folks sunk their fangs into her, they would orchestrate every minuscule detail to make sure all reflected positively on the Bureau.

What about church? Would she still be able to sing in the choir on Sundays, or would her notoriety pack the services with gawkers rather than worshippers, those who just wanted to get a close look at the monster?